The Most Important Factor
by Paintastics
Summary: Never before has a client so strange inquired upon the services of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Who is he really, and what greater mystery surrounds the murder of a single Scotland Yard official? What is the end gain?
1. Chapter 1

"It's broken, Holmes."

"Ah, no, it's not broken, it's simply... disagreeable."

"One part of it is in your hand, and the other is across the room. When we got it, it was all one piece."

"I can assure you, Watson, that it is supposed to do that."

"Just like how it's acceptable to have one's leg approximately six feet away from the rest of the body?"

"Don't be silly. If one's leg is that far away from one's body, clearly they are in need of medical assistance. That is all."

"Just like that object in your hands. It needs medical assistance."

"Watson! I am not stupid, I've dealt with the likes of this before. It just needs--"

"Holmes, it's _broken_."

"Capital."

Holmes threw down the small metal object in disgust.

"Why ever did we purchase such a thing? I already have a burglar's lamp, this one was nothing more than a heartache! " I smiled as my friend sunk heavily into his chair, swinging his legs over the side, and collapsing. "How on Earth did you manage to separate the cone from the body anyway, Watson?" he asked in a bored voice.

"How did I? If I remember correctly, Holmes, it was you who snapped it off." He groaned at my answer, as he knew I was right.

"It's of minimal importance. I shall have it destroyed for the trouble it's caused me."

"You shall do no such thing, I bought it!" My friend regarded me through half-lidded eyes before turning away from me.

"Be that as it may, that insufferable contraption will be gone by the morrow. Should you happen to find it in my fireplace--" A sudden knock at our door cut him off. We both jumped at the sound as neither of us had heard the approaching footsteps through our arguing.

We glanced at one another briefly before Holmes smiled and called out, "Come in!"

The door opened hesitantly at first, so I had suspected that a young girl had come to inquire our aid. But much to my surprise, there stood a very handsome fellow, well dressed and clean, with inquisitive hazel eyes. As he stepped in, I noticed that he was rather short and thin as stick. Had it not been for the smart mustache upon his lip, I would have sworn he was a nothing more than a young boy. He greeted us with an excited smile and graciously removed his hat and bowed.

"Wonderful door you have here, gentlemen! It swings most beautifully on it's hinges."

I laughed.

"You can thank our land lady Mrs Hudson for that!" said I.

"Brilliant!" he sang. I chanced a look at Holmes; he looked nothing less than amussed. Our client continued, "I am very glad you have decided to see me, for you see--" our client broke off suddenly and stood frozen as he looked round our sitting room. But with a quick smile, his attentions returned and he happily stated, "My name is Boris Darley!" he had extended a hand to the two of us. Holmes and I accepted his greeting with a smile, as this man's energy lifted the dreary morning mood instantly.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes! I hold much love for those eyes of yours, yes! I know it's an odd thing to admire, but one must consider all that they have done for both you and our wonderful people. Beautiful colour. Ahh and Dr. Watson! Your trousers always look nicer on you than they do on me, I can assure you." I was greatly disturbed by this, but found within my capabilities the power to ignore it.

"I see you have quite an observant eye, Mr. Darley," Holmes offered. "I chance to say that you dabble in the arts?"

"Why yes, I do! But onto other things," here, I saw Holmes' face drop a bit at the lack of acknowledgment our guest gave his deduction. I'd have to ask him how he came to it once we were alone again, as I failed to see the connection. Darley continued, "Mr. Holmes, gentlemen, I came to you to tell of a very queer occurrence which had decided to bless it's self upon my life."

Holmes gestured to an empty chair. "Pray, have a seat and tell me all about it, Mr. Darley, and I shall see to it that I do everything within my power to alleviate you of your problem." _Should it prove to be of some interest_, I added mentally.

Upon sitting down in the chair indicated, our client's jovial mood instantly adapted into one of business.

"The thing is, gentlemen, I have only recently moved to my current residence and already I'm a bit skeptical. I'd love to talk this matter over with a few close friends, however, I am by myself. You see, I don't have time to go out at night galavanting with the local women or spending precious hours at a gentlemen's club, so I hope you can see why it is I come to you?" He paused his narrative and looked at Holmes, waiting for confirmation.

My friend looked at Darley, expecting him to continute. When he did not, Holmes sighed and waved his hand. "Go on, Mr. Darley."

"Yes, of course. I had returned home last night, maybe round 11 or so, and was struck dumb at the sight of my sitting room furniture in disarray. The sofa was shoved against the wall, the side table knocked askew, and a dead man sprawled in front of the fire place! I can only thank the heavens that the maids left the fire off, else I'd've had a roasted constable on my floor. I've always liked the police, but I never expected to find one dead in my rooms."

"What was his expression?" Holmes asked.

"I don't rightly know, the man was still sporting his fine piece of head-ware when I saw him, couldn't get a good look from where I stood."

"I see. And have you alerted anyone to your findings before you came to me?"

He shrugged his shoulders and regarded Holmes with an indifferent expression. "I didn't see why the men at Scotland Yard wouldn't want their boy back, so I sent a telly to them before coming to meet you and your friend."

"Then the police should have it all under control, as I'm sure Lestrade will put a smidgen of effort since it is one of his own lads. So tell me, Mr. Darley, what exactly have you come to seek from Dr Watson and myself?"

Boris Darley smiled at this. "Clever man, mister Holmes! You must excuse me, but I didn't want to tell too much to any one man. But you asked the right question, you did! The truth is, the constable I found on my floor was actually an old friend of mine. I know I said I was quite alone in this city, but when I made a little investigation of the unfortunate man, I saw that is was none other than my old mate Anthony Strong. I'm a bit untrusting of the police, if I can be honest, which is why I came to you. I know you work differently than they do and aren't afraid to do whatever's necessary."

"And what is this... deniable necessity?" Holmes asked, sitting up a bit straighter.

Darley grinned and sat back in his chair, looking like the weight of the world had just been lifted off his shoulders. He clasped both hands over his face and started to chuckle. "Mister Holmes! Doctor Watson! There is nothing to withhold from the police which they will not find themselves, nothing I am afraid to ask of them! I just... well, Scotland Yard is missing what I need most. To be more accurate, it is missing you two."

"Us?" I asked.

"Exactly so, Dr. Watson! You see, the police will come round to my place, examine the body, do whatever it is they do," I heard Holmes mutter a sort of agreement at this. "and everything will be just so... by the book, if you know what I'm getting at. But no, I am not interested in who the murderer is--" Darley had broken mid-sentace and once again covered his face. I hadn't noticed that he'd been holding back tears. "This man... he was my friend, you see? I-I don't want this to simply be another corpse in the Scotland Yard records--"

He turned sharply to me, clasped his hands upon the armrest and leaned in my direction. In a sinister voice, he asked, "Doctor Watson, what would you do if you found mister Holmes dead upon your floors? Blood pooled round his chest from a missing heart, throat ripped to shreds and a face showing horror like you've never imagined possible?" I stared at this estranged client of ours, every word of his twisting my stomach in unease. To my horror, he continued. "To _stare_, into the eyes which knew so much life and are now dull as a child's painted toy? To look upon the body and know you could have done _nothing_? That you failed to save him?" his voice was rising in intensity and I shouted for him to stop. "That he will no longer utter his or another's name ever again?! Never! Never shall he walk these rooms and drink your tea because he is dead and nothing will remedy that!!" I found myself shaking my head, denying such a thing possible. I tried to brush off his words, but the images were forced into my mind. "Please, Dr. Watson, what would you do in my position?! My best mate is dead in my home, and I have no idea why this has happened-- surely you must understand the pains this causes me!"

Darley's piercing eyes bore into my soul, it would seem, and the sheer horror at discovering his dead friend was so perfectly stamped onto my own feelings. For a brief moment, I pictured Holmes is the mangled state Darley had just described. A shutter shot down my spin as my chest felt hollow. I found that I couldn't look at the man before me a moment longer.

It did not lessen his overpowering remarks nor did it ease my mind.

"I understand." Holmes' voice broke the trance upon the two of us as we both turn to look at him. He'd been watching me the entire time.

"Believe me, Mr. Darley, I know what you are requesting." he now looks to the distraught man before us, his voice calm and gentle. "Rest assured, I will not take this case lightly. Now, can you describe the state of your friend Anthony, or would that be too painful?" There's a kindness in the way he looks upon the client, waiting patiently to allow Darley to answer when ready. The man in question looks down at his feet, brows knitting together and nibbling at his thumb.

"I'd appreciate you looking at the scene yourself. I'm not too emotionally disturbed, it's just that I wouldn't be able to find the words." He goes silent before once again turning towards me. "You have my sincerest apologies, Dr. Watson... I didn't mean to imply what I did. I'm simply a bit stressed at the moment." I smiled at him to show that all was forgiven. He returned the smile, then turned back to Holmes.

"If you'll meet me at the station tomorrow, I'd be glad take you to my rooms."

"A sooner examination of the scene would be preferable. I would never dream of keeping the body there any longer than necessary."

"Oh, alright. I shall send a cab for you at noon, I'm afraid I have a few more things to do before I can fully devote my time to this."

Holmes had offered him a brandy, which he declined. Standing up, shaking each of our hands, Mr. Darley quickly made his way to the door. He had stopped to pick up his hat, but paused when it was in his hands. He looked at it lovingly before turning back to Holmes and myself.

"I didn't have much time to introduce myself, so I'll leave this here. I know how much you gents enjoy figuring a person out."

Holmes nodded at his decision, and then he was gone.

We sat, the two of us, in silence. I looked upon the door and imagined the man who walked through it for the first time not more than ten minutes ago. I was still a bit shaken by his words, but I didn't allow it to be evident in my expression.

"Well now, what do you make of that?" Holmes mutters to himself. I didn't intend to dwell on the strange little man too much, so offered that perhaps he wasn't the type to take the death of a friend well.

"I'd be afraid of the man who didn't feel at least a little remorse at the loss of a dear friend." my companion remarked.

"Boris Darley frightens me. Did you observe the way his eyes burned as he... said all _that_?"

"No, I hardly noticed. But you, my dear Watson, you must learn to guard yourself better. That is how many a great man falls." He now resumed his seat and lit his pipe. The smoke of the burning tobacco rising and curling in the air, obscuring my view of his face. I wasn't satisfied.

"You must excuse me in my asking this, Holmes, but why--"

"Because he sees us as fellow men while he views the police as mere puppets. Mr. Darley has come to us in hopes that with our friendship in mind, we would be able to sympathize with his losses. Though why that is necessary, I do not yet know. Do me a favor and hand me his hat, if you please?"

I was not surprised that Holmes was able to answer my question before I could ask it, so I handed him the hat with no delay.

"This is the second hat with which we shall use to fully meet our client," he remarked as he turned said object every which way in his hands. As before, I expected him to hand it to me so that I may try my hand at deducing our client, but Holmes had decided to skip the lesson this time.

"This hat is not very extraordinary, to be honest. No scuffs, hardly a days worth of dust, no proper engravings as to identity... it doesn't even appear local."

"How so?" I asked.

"This is a brand I don't recognize. Probably American, judging by subtle style differences." He now set the hat over his knee, extending and retracting his leg to see how the hat fell and rose with the movement.

"And what does that prove?" the question was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

"Oh, it proves nothing. I am merely thinking." He continued the odd movements for a few moments before removing the hat and placing it on his own head. I watched in silence, secretly wishing he'd let me have a look at the black hat which now resided atop his head. I recounted the facts.

"So this Darley person, what can you conclude about him?"

"Oh, not much. I firmly believe that Darley is a man of decent wealth, he is not American nor has he been there within the past year, he has no family, no affairs, self-employed, uncomfortable around horses, and is an overall sturdy gentleman who is uninfluenced by his surroundings."

I sunk backed and barked a laugh. "My dear Holmes, I would lose an entire nights sleep if you would decide not to tell me how on God's Earth you deduced all that!"

He smiled at this and leaned forward. "I would hate to deprive you of your sleep tonight, doctor, so I shall explain it. You needn't hear my explanation of his good fortune, I hope? Wonderful! Now, despite this fine hat being American made, you will notice that Darley has neither the accent nor the style of an American man. He is as every bit English as you or me. Also, I should bring to light the fact that I do not believe this hat belongs to him. It fits me just fine, but would be at least a quarter of an inch too large for his head. You could take into account that perhaps it is simply to his likings, but if one were to pay for a hat such as this, it would be a mistake to purposely commit yourself to one which would blow away on a windy day. Therefor, he could not be the original owner of this hat."

"Sounds reasonable." I mutter.

"Quite so. As for the family, you will notice the unconventional way in which he both entered our rooms and greeted us. This will also prove him correct in stating that he has no affairs nor is he a social man, for if he were, his appearance here this morning would have been much more conventional. Inviting himself up our stairs without being led by Mrs. Hudson nor sending some sort of notification ahead of time points to the fact that he is unused to situations such as this. I say that he has no family not only because he told us he was alone, but also by the way he displayed such awkwardness in emotional releases. Perhaps if he wasn't alone at such an early age, he'd've been more keen on traditional expressions."

"You are referring, of course, to his outburst?"

"Indeed, that is my connection. Have I left anything out?"

"Err... his self employment?"

"Ah, yes. We've already concluded that this man is a novice in social behaviors. No associates? No friends from the work place? I am sure you'll find it hard to believe that any man would remain so friendless should not the opportunity of a work buddy be presented. The only reasonable conclusion, therefor, would be that he has none."

I thought that was a bit of a stretch, but I didn't question it. "This fellow seems to lead a lonely life." I remarked instead.

"It would appear so. However, loneliness doesn't unwind everyman. He obviously finds solace in his abilities to do whatever he likes whenever he likes without being encumbered by relations. I can't say our trains of thought differ too greatly, Mr. Darley and myself."

"You're not as socially inept as you like to believe you are, Holmes. You just fail to acknowledge the people around you."

Now was his turn to laugh. "Oh, Watson, you are endearing! I suppose you are right, though now is hardly the time to dwell on my relationships. Do you wish to know about his aversion to horses?"

"Perhaps a later time, I think the crime scene is more important than how you looked at his boots and magically came to that conclusion."

Holmes smiled at this. "Not his boots, Watson, but his trouser legs."

"Yes, well ah... don't you think it was a bit strange that he was withholding information from the police? It'll be difficult discerning truth from fiction from this man, I think."

"It would seem so, though I can see his reasons. I'm not sure if I would trust them with everything, anyhow. Come along now, doctor, I think we have just enough time to lunch before being pulled into this new adventure."

* * *

**LOOK HOW CLEVER I AM, I ENDED THE CHAPTER LIKE DOYLE HIMSELF!! Yes, I know, but for lack of a better ending, it'll have to do.**


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes and I arrived at Darley's residence at a quarter past twelve, as there was an unfortunate incident involving a runaway horse and a fish cart. All was well, the horse was merely spooked by an accidental knock on it's hindquarters which sent it dashing into the fisherman's clutch of week old fish. If anything, I think the poor beast did all of London a favor in doing so.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by Lestrade once we were at the doors, the Scotland Yard detective looking more agitated than usual.

"I'll tell you, mister Holmes, in all my years at the Yard, I've never seen any of our boys end up like this." he spoke in a huff.

"Ah, so it is one of yours?" Holmes asks as we walk up the stairs.

"Oh, I wish it weren't! It's the boy Strong we got in there. Real shame too, this one had promise."

Holmes gave a bored sigh. "The promise usually always end up being a lie in most cases, anyhow." he remarked, flashing a smile to me. Lestrade's lips pursed as his face flushed, ready to shout some retort at Holmes. He could not, however, as a wrought Darley came hurriedly to meet us.

"Dear Anthony hasn't moved a bit, gents. Glad you could come. Unfortunately though, these _men_ came as well." his face was ashen as his eyes appeared even wider yet slightly marred with irritation at the police's presence.

"Mr. Darley, sir!" Lestrade broke in. "You are to remain in the other room as we conduct our-"

"The deuce I will!" the small man cried. "As I've told you before, _Inspector_, I have no intentions of leaving this entirely in your hands. That is why, as I certainly hope you can see, mister Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are here!" The two men continued to bicker at such low tones that I failed to hear them. It wasn't until Darley's voice rose to the point where he was practically shouting at Lestrade. But to his credit, the inspector didn't cringe back as any lesser officer may have. Instead, he rolled back his shoulders and in an authoritative voice, stated, "Mister Darley, _sir_, Sherlock Holmes-"

"And Dr. Watson." Darley spat, arms crossed over his chest.

"He has a point, you know." Holmes interjected with a smile.

Lestrade held a shaky breath and closed his eyes. I could tell that he was using every ounce of restraint to stay calm. Slowly, he continued, "Yes, and Dr. Watson... they are here whether we want them to be or not."

"I wanted them both." Darley remarked stubbornly.

The official detective squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head and swore an oath as he threw up his arms and turned away from us, striding into the room. Holmes burst out laughing.

"Mr. Darley, my good chap, you have beaten my record! Come now, you two, let us see to the man in the next room, shall we? I am anxious to hear what dear Lestrade thinks of this."

We followed behind my friend; Holmes, of course, went right to work examining everything while I stood back with Darley and took notes.

The scene was disturbing, to say the least. Had I not been an army surgeon the body before me would have been horrendous. As it was, however gruesome, I found it surprisingly easy to take notes and observe my friend. The dead constable was indeed as Darley described at Baker Street; his coat was thrown open, chest slightly exposed with a great deal dried blood. The throat was severed, though I couldn't see to what extent at this distance. Holmes was just now removing the man's issued helmet when I felt a tug at my sleeve.

Looking up from my notes, I turned to find Darley staring intently at my companion.

"Dr. Watson... do you know what trouser size mister Holmes takes?" he asked in a low voice.

I had to stop and stare at this. Darley's gaze stayed on Holmes with an expression of deep thought as though he thought this question genuine!

"What size-- why the deuce do you want to know that?" I whispered hoarsely.

He turned to me and gave a sheepish smile. "I'm terribly sorry, Dr. Watson. You must forgive me, my mind... peh! I'm a bit shaken, you'll have to excuse me. Please, doctor, continue your wonderful writings..." He continued looking forward as I wearily took to my notes again.

I watched as Holmes knelt at the body's side, leaning very close to examine it's face. Here, he retrieved his glass and hovered it a few inches over the dead man's lips, nose, and ears, trailing down to the shredded remains of the throat where, to my slight disgust, he extended his little finger and prodded the surrounding flesh. Extracting his finger, he looked intently at his hand and rubbed his thumb to the smaller digit. Satisfied with whatever he found, he now repeated the process over the exposed chest. Lestrade, meanwhile, was looking round the room for signs struggle and motive.

I also looked at our surroundings. It was, prior to the bloody murder, very nice dwellings. Intricate wall paper over detailed paneling, a large fire place and what looked like comfortable furniture. I couldn't help but notice the lack of personal effects, however, giving what should be a pleasant living space the presence of a cold unwelcoming abode.

I don't know if it was Lestrade's orders or Darley's assertive nature, but no other police officials were in the room. All the better I suppose, as Holmes claims they do nothing but get in the way. So after a few moments more of examining, Holmes and Inspector Lestrade walked over to Darley and myself.

"I'm curious, inspector, what do you make of this?" My friend asked, slipping off his bloody leather glove.

"Seems like outright butchery to me. I can't find any blood on the distanced furniture, no items amiss... I think it was done with a common razor, don't you?"

"Come now, it is not my turn to share and I am eager to hear what you have to say."

Lestrade smirked. "Well I think he was murdered where he lay! It is my proposition that the murderer jumped Strong from behind, stabbed and slashed at his throat before using some dastardly method of opening the chest and doing God knows what-"

"Capital job, Lestrade, but the physical evidence is right before us for all to see. Surely you have a theory divulging deeper than the obvious?"

In Lestrade's silence, our client had shuffled against Holmes and tightly grasped his arm, looking at him with sporadic eyes.

"Why in my home!" Darley cut in with a broken voice. "Why would the murder of my friend happen here? I know of no one who would wish to torment me by doing this!" Holmes was about to answer, when Lestrade called out.

"Ha ha!" the inspector barked. "Nothing but a coincidence, surely! Strong was on the force for only about three months before meeting his untimely death- may God bless him- but I guess that, that... yes! About two weeks ago, Strong was involved with the arrest of a local gang leader! I think perhaps we can pin one of the cronies as the murderer. Darley, sir, how long've you lived here?"

"I've situated myself here less than a week ago."

"I believe the murderer thought the place abandoned, and so thought is safe to do the deed here."

"If that were true," Holmes started, "why bring poor Anthony to a room such as this? Why not an abandoned building, or a warehouse?" He looked keenly upon the inspector, who had now removed his hat and scratched at his scalp.

"Perhaps he was lured with a promise and tricked."

"I highly doubt that."

"Err... the Jefferson Hope case... you remem-"

"Of course I remember it. Drebber, drunk beyond comprehension, was killed in an abandoned house, silently, with poison. Jefferson Hope was a man on a righteous mission for revenge, his intentions were to see where the fates really lied; who they damned and who they blessed. This case, however, seems more like a vicious attack. The motive... well, the motives are different, anyhow."

"Damned if I know, then. I mean, it's clear that the mutilations took place in this room as we can see that there are blood stains round the body... aside from that, I can get nothing."

Without regard to Lestrade's deductions, Holmes now turned to me with a gleam in his eyes. "Dear Watson, think of our conversation from earlier this morning. Can you deduce nothing different?" I shrugged my shoulders at my companion, not really knowing what he was referring to. I sighed and took a guess.

"I suppose Lestrade is correct in saying that the murder happened beneath this roof, as I can come up with nothing to challenge that, though I'm doubtful of the mutilations taking place in that spot. Even from here, I can see that nothing has been removed from the chest cavity, however, the throat having been cut the way it was, a major artery would have been severed; spurting blood every which way; more so than what's apparent in the room."

"Wonderful." he smiled. "Anything else?"

I swept the room once more. "No, nothing."

"You'd think Jack the Ripper himself made his way through here," I heard Lestrade mutter.

"Anthony was not a prostitute, Inspector Lestrade." Darley said innocently.

"I'm well aware of that, sir. I'm not as dumb-witted as the Doctor here likes to make me." He shot a quick glance at me. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. "Anyway, Holmes, what are your ideas now that you've shot down all mine?"

Holmes grinned at the Inspector and shook his head. "You know full well, Inspector, that I never tell before I know all the facts."

* * *

On the cab ride home, Holmes had kept himself reserved as he stared out into the streets, fog swishing past us in our wake. He was idly nibbling at the nail on his thumb while the other had lay quietly in his lap. At the risk of being swatted at, I brought up my stick and lightly tapped his knee. Without even a small show of surprise, he turned to me with slight annoyance on his face. "Yes, Watson, what is it?"

"I couldn't help but notice that you've been uncharacteristically strict with your information this afternoon, and I was curious as to why."

He smiled at this, shifting in his seat. "Since Darley has made it painfully evident that you and I were in this together, I won't hold back from you. The reason I didn't slip Lestrade even the appearance of our criminal is because Darley fascinates me. Or rather, he flatters me in that he would stand up and refuse an official detective in favor of our service. I thought I'd oblige him with equal loyalty."

"I'm not entirely sure of this man's sanity, if I can be honest."

"Pray tell." He asked in an interested tone.

"Well, rather inappropriately, he asked me what trouser size you took. While you were investigating the corpse, I might add."

He laughed at this. "Dear me, that man seems to have quite an interest in trousers, wouldn't you say? Perhaps he intends to recompense us in clothing."

"I highly doubt that. If he were a tailor, I saw no evidence to back that up, nor do I think he has a friend in the industry."

"That train of thought never crossed my mind. Tell me Watson, how did you deduce as much?"

"Well, when he removed his jacket I noticed, when the light from the window hit him, the color of his sleeves were different than that of his trousers. He seemed to be wearing two pieces from separate black suits. No friend of a dignified tailor would ever allow their fellow to be seen in such a way."

"Well done, old boy! Well done! Like Darley himself, you too seem to have an eye for trousers."

"Holmes, please."

"Quite right, Watson. You must forgive me."

"Think nothing of it. I suppose I can take a medical approach to this man's state of mind later, but for now, would you mind enlightening me as to what you have found?"

"Certainly. Though it will require some additional investigations round the house, which I'm sure Darley won't be adverse too."

"He does seem to have taken quite a liking to you."

"An advantage, Watson. Anyhow, I have conjured a reliable picture of our criminal from what we have been able to see. He is a strong fellow, one who is capable of overtaking a tall police officer like Strong, and also able to tie him up, brutally mutilate the poor fellow, and eventually carry him to where the body now resides."

"I presume you found raw wrist and perhaps other signs of struggle, but how do you know he was carried? There was no blood trail that I saw, neither was there... well, neither was there blood enough to suggest murder in his spot. I must admit, I've no idea where to place the act."

"Excellent, my dear fellow, it warms be greatly to hear that you too noticed the clean floors out of the proximity. What do you make of it?"

"As I've said, I have no idea."

"Surely you exaggerate! But never mind, I don't want you to start off on the wrong trail. My theory is that poor Anthony Strong was removed of his clothing _before_ the attacks made on his person, only to have them returned once he was dead. The thick wool of the official's greatcoat would soak the blood like a sponge, allowing the body to be carried with no trail. Why his coat was opened, I think, was due to buttons being wretched off in the initial struggle."

"Seeing the volume of blood which was present round the body, I think it safe to assume that there wasn't much distance between the place of mutilations and that of where we found him. So..."

"Go on, Watson!"

"So Lestrade was correct!"

"As strange as it may sound, he was. I am confident that Strong was overtaken, possible blinded, and dragged to Darley's house where he was then undone. It wasn't until after that, that the unfortunate man first entered the sitting room."

"But even then, there was a lot less blood that what should have been. I think it likely that the man was allowed to bleed for some time after death before being redressed."

"Well now, that is interesting."

I has rested my chin over knob of my stick, watching Holmes as he watched me. "Do you think _foul_ play was involved?" I ventured.

"Sexual trauma, you mean? Hmm. I doubt that was the case, there would have been more evidence to show for it. No, I do not think that was it."

"Then I suppose the removal of coat and shirtsleeves was purposely to avoid mess."

"Quite right, dear fellow. It's what I would have done."

"Of course. So, anything else?"

He took to looking at the ceiling of our cab while he exhaled a steady breath. "Ahh let's see... well, a few trifles, ones which, I pray you'll understand, I wish to keep to myself at present, least till I can further my investigation of the house. You don't mind, do you Watson?"

"Not in the least. Darley seems set on having us both solve the case, but I understand your methods well enough to allow you your secrecy."

"Splendid! I will have to leave you to yourself tonight, however, as I'm going on the hunt. You may expect me back before you awaken, and perhaps we can discuss the matter more over some toffees."

"I hate those toffees."

"Well, we've an entire barrel full, thanks to our last client, and I'd feel horrid if we threw them out."

"Or perhaps we can utilize them for that crack over the ceiling. It'd taste the same, anyway."

He chuckles and again turned his attentions out the window. I'd have to make sure those horrid candies were destroyed before he got back.

* * *

**Okay, I promise, my own style will be more evident in chapters from here on out. And also, hopefully this is the last analytical chapter and the story will be able to progress here after. **

**Man, I am way over my head here with all the details! I'm totally making it up as I go along, so small things MAY be liable to change... :)**

**So bear with me.**


	3. Chapter 3

As promised, Holmes was in and out of Baker Street within fifteen minutes of our arrival home. I had gone to the fire, poured myself a generous helping of whiskey from the decanter, and plopped down in my chair as I watched my friend hurriedly moving about. First, he went straight for his room, whereupon he entered as Sherlock Holmes and exited as a middle-aged drunkard. Then, with his long legs, he strode quickly over to his desk and pocketed a few papers and a revolver.

"A gun, Holmes?" I asked, ready to assist if necessary.

"I do prefer my riding crop, but I seem to have misplaced it."

"I think you left it by your index. Try looking there."

"No need, Watson. The butt of his pistol will prove just as useful as the bullets it projects." He throws a ratted coat over his shoulders and tops a soft cap upon his disheveled hair. "Feel free to sleep in tomorrow morning, my dear fellow, this weather complicates things and I'd hate to go back on my word." I laughed at this, Holmes' odd sense of humor always a compelling treat for the heart. He smiled at me as he retrieved a cane from the coat rack, tipped his hat in my direction, and disappeared behind the door.

I sat in silence for a few moments before laughing aloud into the lonely rooms. It's so strange to think that this is normal life here in Baker Street. Holmes and I will divulge in domestic habits, only to be interrupted by some distraught policeman or a poor Londoner at their wits ends. As per usual, Holmes will escape to where ever it his he attains his knowledge of the case, half solving it before coming home the next morning, and walking me through everything until I myself come up with a few links which at times will ease into his theories. I could keep a colorful dossier of all the disguises in which my friend had perfected, a new story for each different face. Usually I am amazed and baffled, hardly able to recognize my dear friend, and other times, we will both laugh at the absurdity and extremes he is sometimes required to adapt. My favorite would probably have to be the time he stumbled home one evening in skirt and bustle. I've always found him a handsome man, but I must admit that the corset did not suit his figure.

As it was now, staring at the mess of a sitting room, the pipe rack and his cluttered desk, I couldn't help but recollect the events of this morning. Most prominent of all was the terrible speech of Darley's. That was what had me looking around at all the small things that made this room home; all the things that were totally and undoubtedly Holmes. My God, to think such a fate could fall a man like it did to Boris Darley, and that it be suggested to me! That man disturbed me, no doubt as to why, but even he had the sense to mourn a friend; albeit in an unfathomable fashion. Either way, it had me wondering what happened to the poor man and what had set him off on such a lonely existence.

And what of this singular case? A policeman who had been dragged-- forcibly? willingly? for whatever reason and in whatever way, a man dragged to this house, stripped at least from the waist up and mutilated, allowed to bleed after death, and then re-dressed? I had not a clue, and I was too exhausted mentally and physically to care. I yawned, stretched in my chair and drained the last of my whiskey. I would have stayed up for Holmes' return, but he assured me he'd be back in the morning, and I did not complain. Setting the glass on the table beside me, I stood up and took one last look round the room. It was quiet, a soft yellow glow from the gas bathing everything in light and shadow; I could barely make out the books on our shelves. With a quick look to the door, I turned round and retired to my bedroom.

Early the next morning, I was sitting with the paper in one hand and coffee in the other, examining the early news articles by myself. Holmes hadn't arrived home yet, so I was breakfasting alone. I had just dipped my spoon into the cold cereal before I heard a knock at the door. To engaged by my food, and partially by the article about tainted wines, I ignored the knocks completely, willing Mrs. Hudson to answer it. I am a lazy devil at times. Oh, but when it persisted, I dropped the utensil and stood, straightening my waistcoat, and walking to the door.

To my evident surprise, and also to my great dismay, I was once again greeted by the exuberant face of Darley. His features lit up when he saw me as a smile broke upon his lips. "Dr. Watson! And how are you this fine morning?"

"I am well, thank you."

He craned his neck and looked over my shoulder, squinting as his smile broadened. "Very good, Doctor, it warms me to see you happy. Anyhow, is mister Holmes here? I have something for him."

"Whatever it is, you can leave it with me." I assure him.

"So he's not home. Well, I suppose I can wait, then. Anyway, it's not an object, I have new information but I cannot... he will be back, won't he?"

"Well I certainly hope so!" I say in some surprise. "You can tell me, Darley, and I promise to relay everything to him."

He regarded me in consideration. "I could. I really should, actually, but this is for him to hear first."

The small man stops talking and stared down at my shoes, hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. I, too, stare down at our feet, this meeting becoming awkward. My common sense finally hits me.

"Pray, come in, Darley, how rude of me to forget my hospitality." I step aside and invite him in, but he stays where he is. I can see small smiles forming upon his lips as he takes in our room, but he tries to suppress them.

"Thank you so very much, Dr. Watson, but it'll have to be another day! I do highly regret missing this opportunity to really talk with you... damn the callings of other arrangements...." His voice lowers as disappointment flashes over his handsome features. But after shrugging his shoulders, he looks up to me and smiles. "I must leave now, but I have something for you, too."

I look on in curiosity as he twist his body, reaching a hand into an inner-coat pocket. He retrieves a small folded piece of canvas and runs a thumb over it. Still smiling, he pushes it in my direction.

"What is it?" I ask, not yet unfolding it.

"A piece of my soul conjured on the spot during the wee hours of the morning. But please, Dr. Watson, don't look at it until I leave. I am very shy about my work."

I stared a bit dumbfounded at the as of yet seen... piece of soul, but I gained my composure and promised him I would wait.

Wringing my hand, he excitedly whispered, "I am very glad you were here this morning, Doctor, I always love to see you."

"Yes, of course...."

He slipped out the door and I waited until he rounded the corner before turning my attentions to the small missive. I thumbed the edge which was neatly cut with artistic precision and unfolded the dense piece of cloth. I stared in utter amazement at what lay in my hands.

It was a painting. Not just of anything, but a beautifully rendered portrait of my companion standing bedside a red brick building with the busy commotion of London at his back. He'd captured Holmes' greatcoat down to the very finest detail, dark-glasses rested half down his nose, hand's pocketed, hat tilted in just the right angle. His face... why, I don't even know what to think of the face! He was looking beyond the viewer, lips slightly parted as if about to reveal his grand scheme; the glint in his eyes captured perfectly as the lighting on his shoulders and hair formed a halo of light around him. This was amazing by all accounts; when Holmes deduced that Darley dabbled in the arts, I don't think he had any idea of the man's true capabilities. I ought to thank Darley for this reproduction of my friend as there are no known photographs of him, and that our client seemed to sense our companionability, perhaps this was, in a way, payment? Huh! The small masterpiece was better than a photograph, which lacked in color and refined beauty. The exactness was cunning, and the street a familiar one. The peculiar thing was that it didn't look like a painting or even a proper photograph. Holmes wasn't posed, his body not set as they always set them; it was casual. As if he'd only just stopped his step, coat still moving about his feet, his angle and everything set in such as unconventional matter. Why, it was more like a frame of Holmes simply in _existence_ rather that a subject in a piece of art.

Still marveling at this gift of Darley's, I was scarcely aware of the front door opening. I still stood in our doorway and could see Holmes entering the lobby, looking as alert as ever. I quickly pocketed the painting.

"Ah, Watson, come to greet me, have you?"

I nodded. "Did you happen to catch our client on your way in, Holmes?"

"No, I did not. Had he come round?"

"Yes, you just missed him. He had important information for you, but he refused to confined in me."

"That really is most singular. However, I am not too worried, I already know what he came to tell me."

"Ah, so you've scoured the area."

"That I have. Halloa, Watson, what is that in your pocket?"

My hand instinctively flew to the pocket which held the painting. Holmes smiled as I unknowingly reviled its location to him. "Oh, ah..." some little voice in the back of my mind told me not to reveal it for what it really was. Holmes would know I was lying, but hopefully he'd take it as a hint and not dig much deeper. "it's nothing. Darley dropped it off for me, as he had dropped by to give you information."

His eyes positively glittered with his untrustworthy countenance, I'd have to remember to hide this carefully if ever I was to leave Holmes to himself and all of 221B.

"Alright then, I won't trouble you further. Rest assured, my dear fellow, I won't go snooping about. This is incredibly in Darley's character, anyhow. Might I come in?"

"Oh, yes, of course." I flushed as I had once again forgotten myself.

When we were comfortably seated in front of the fire, I inquired Holmes about his findings. He assured me, to my disappointment though I really ought not to be surprised, that all would be made clear to me in due time. I suppose he forgot that Darley swore us into each other's confidence. I had said as much, as a final attempt, which Holmes easily combated with the fact that I held the painting a secret.

"Holmes... how did you know it was a painting?"

"You just confirmed it, old boy. I saw the corner of the textured canvas sticking from your coat pocket, but really, Watson, that was the oldest trick in the book."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Alright, then... what do you make of it?"

"That Darley had presented you with a an example of his works? Well it depends on what the subject is. It could be a friendly gesture, might have been an inspiration made on a whim, or it may even be a window into this man's mind and inner workings. If the latter is true, I trust he applied it as a clue for your imagination."

I considered this, but seeing that _Holmes_ was the subject, not really doing anything but standing with a dignified air, I found no conclusions.

"Judging by your expression, I take it you are at a loss. If I were you, I'd use it to further look into your hypothesis of this man having a mental disorder. Maybe, again, depending what is painted and with what strokes and colors, perhaps it will lead to medical discovery."

I laughed to myself. "I hardly think that that is the case. This man has the skills to rival John Singer Sargent!"

He regarded me for a long while before sitting back in his chair and toying with an unlit pipe. "So tell me, Watson, how is the likeness in this portrait to yourself?"

I choked on my tea. "Holmes!"

"I'm sure it does you justice, my dear fellow, and why you won't show it to me only suggests that it reveals something you wish to remain hidden. Please, don't look so surprised. You compared him to an artist known for his unconventional and sometimes controversial portraits of women. If you don't show me, or at least tell me what is on that piece of canvas, I'm afraid I'm going to have to let my imagination run wild with the possibilities." His lids fell, but it could not hide the glint in his eyes. "And you know full well, Watson, the expanse of my imagination."

I very nearly gave in when it dawned upon me that I really didn't care what he thought it was. I, too, leaned back and regarded my companion with a lazy glance. "Think of it as you wish, but it is I who gets to marvel at it's beauty first hand." Irritation flashed across his features at my stubborn reserve.

"Confound you, man! What is it? Did he depict you in a lustrous dress or give you the head of a lamb? Surely it's not a disagreeable portrait."

"No, it's not disagreeable, and again I must say that no, it is not of me. Though Darley imagining my in a dress certainly would be an interesting suggestion."

He shook his head and turned his attentions to the morning paper. "Alright, you win. You can put that painting away and never mention it again for all I care. I'm bored of it."

"I've no problem with that." I already knew this wasn't the end of it. His unbelieving scoff only proved my theory.

My food was now cold, the toast stale and cereal becoming congealed. Holmes had informed me that he was starved like a street dog, and so Mrs. Hudson was rung to bring up more breakfast.

I was just about to spoon in a mouthful of eggs, when one of the maids interrupted the meal.

"A telegram, sir."

"Let us have it, my dear." Holmes had said, reaching out for it. She looked to me before handing it to my friend, leaving with not a word more. "It's from Scotland Yard, Watson, and addressed to you. Mind if I open it?"

"I should like to read it for myself, if you don't mind."

He proceeded to open the envelop anyway. "As a matter of fact, I do mind. I think I ought to make sure...." his voice trailed off as his eyes continued to dart across the paper. This caught my attention, as Holmes rarely ever cut himself off in favor of reading. Once he was done, he carelessly tossed the folder paper toward my side of the table, returning to his plate. I picked up the telegram and looked at the official crest.

"Does the name Caroline Taftner sound familiar to you?"

I looked blankly at the paper, trying to place the name's familiarity. "Why... yes, she was the new intern at the clinic. One of the few females upon the job."

He hummed, placing his fingertips together and exhaling. "Were you fond of her, Watson?"

I shrugged. "She was one of my most prominent assistants, amongst the others, and handled herself well in the face of death and recovery. Yes, I suppose you could say I was fond of her. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, because she's dead now."


	4. Chapter 4

"Well it's not very romantic, is it, Watson?"

"Her eyes were sewn shut with her own hair, Holmes, it's not very romantic at all."

"Ahh but that's where it lies! The cause of death is nearly unidentifiable as there is no disturbance upon her body. Well, save that her hair had been ruefully severed. The murderer was obviously one who practiced some sort of odd ritual as you will note that the bottoms of her feet held peculiar markers as well."

"This month is bustling with murders, it seems. So what do you think about it?"

"I shall think nothing of it. Instead, let us allow inspector Gordon to take the case; he seems to be in want of something more potent than petty thefts. No, Watson, what I _do_ think we ought to do is pay Darley a visit." As of late, my opinion of the little man had dwindled to a moderate dislike. His odd behavior and the entire mystery which surrounded his life completely perplexed me. However, my curiosity peeked when he'd presented me with the portrait, and so I found myself more than happy to hear of our next destination.

We stopped for an hour after leaving the hospital for a bit of lunch, departing soon after to meet our client, I assume, to converse with him whatever Holmes had found.

"You think he'll be home?" I asked after a while.

"Certainly. Where else would he go?"

"I suppose wherever it is he goes to earn his bread. He may be self-employed, but surely he leaves the house to work."

"I have proof on the contrary, " Holmes responded, stepping over a lost glove. "I've been in the man's house, inspected his boots and combed the rug which lays at the foot of the door. Do you know what I found?"

"I presume: nothing?"

"Right you are! I found only the faintest hints of the outside world upon his floors; his boots only slightly worn and the carpets perfectly clean though a little rundown. Incidentally, I did find ample amounts of pens and parchment as well as various art supplies."

"I would think him an artist by profession, except that I've never heard of him before."

"Nor have I. And do you know what is most strange about my investigation in ties with his occupation? I have found absolutely no traces of the man's work! You would think an artist would surround his home with his masterworks, or at least stack them upon a collected wall; and yet I saw none of this. Oh! but here we are, my dear Doctor. Let's not contemplate the man when we are the beggars at his doorstep."

Holmes had stopped short of the door, allowing me to step ahead of him and knock. We waited a few moments with no response. I knocked again; nothing. I turned to my friend, brow propped, and waited for my next instruction.

"You're sure he's in?"

"Just try again, Watson, and don't scrutinize me." he spat irritably.

I scowled and turned to the door, this time calling our clients name. I was about to turn away, suggesting to Holmes that we come back at a later hour, when my friend had pushed me aside and roughly shimmied the handle.

He looked at me with a grave countenance.

"Holmes..."

"Shush, Watson," he said quietly. "Do you have my picks and perhaps even your revolver?"

"The revolver, yes, but--"

"Well, that's alright. I fear, in my late night endeavors, I may have damaged one of his back windows. Let us see if that won't allow us entrance."

The two of us casually made our way between the alley. Holmes had lead me to a small garden, passing over a bed of sundry sprouts and a cracked vase, over to a splintered window pane. I looked at him in surprise, but he merely brushed it aside.

"This window leads to a small study," he whispered in low tones. "From there, we will enter a small hallway, pass the bedroom and enter the sitting room. To the left of that, there will be another door leading to a misused studio. I think our best chances would be to check the sitting room as well as his bed chambers."

I nodded and followed my companion through the window. The study was a very welcoming room, what with its deep red carpeting and wonderfully Victorian wallpaper. Our feet padded on thick fibers which muffled our steps as we made our way into the hall.

"I know where the bedroom is, and if you'll do me the honor, you'll go ahead and check the sitting room. Come find me when you've completed your investigation."

I had agreed, and the two of us walked to the end of the hall.

"Good heavens!!" My arm shot out instinctively before my friend when we reached the sitting room, halting his step. There was new blood on the floor. I stared, horrified, at the body which lay curled in on itself at the corner of the room. "By Jove... that isn't Darley, is it?" I asked, my voice perhaps hitching a few notes higer than usual.

Holmes grasped my forearm and together we kneeled at the body. "Quick, Watson, is he alive?"

I lifted his limp arm and pulled down his cuff to check for pulse. I felt myself signing in relief. "He's fine, but... where the devil did all this blood come from?"

"Never mind that, we need to get him awake and find what he knows. Check the cabinet for brandy, I think I saw some on our first visit."

Once we had moved the unconscious man to the sofa, tipping some brandy into his mouth and loosening his collar, we sat in wait for him to come round. It was only a matter of minutes before his eyes blinked open.

"Darley, my good fellow, are you alright?" I asked in a gentle manner. Oh, but what could I honestly expect from the little man? Upon hearing my voice, he let out a horrific scream, flailing out his arms and flinging himself to the floor. He very nearly knocked himself out again, if only I hadn't grasped his hand in my own. The small contact seemed to right him instantly, and he sat, wild eyed, against the couch.

"Dr. Watson?" He panted.

"Yes, Darley, it is I. How are you?"

"How--? Well I havn't the faintest idea... and how long have you been here? I don't remember... don't remember calling you over to hold my hand."

I blushed, apologizing, and made to pull my hand away, but he held fast.

"Mister Darley," Holmes said calmly, stepping from his place behind the sofa.

"Mister Holmes! Now what are you both--"

"Tut, Darley, not a word more until you answer a few questions."

"As much as I know, mister Holmes, I hold nothing from you and the dear doctor."

I had pulled him back to his feet, but he faltered and clutched at his sides. Through a suppressed gasp of pain, he withdrew the hand which shot to his ribs and brought it in front of his face. "I-- Dr. Watson, are you.. are you bleeding?"

"No, in fact, we are here to check up on you. This blood's all yours."

He shouted again, ripping his hand from mine and pulling it to his chest. "You've done this! I know my appearance was a bit strange upon your rooms, but I don't think it warrants you doing this!"

"Had I any intentions of killing you," sighed Holmes. "then you would not be here now. Which comes to the point of our being here. Though I already know it vain asking who did this to you, I must at least inquire as to what you've been doing since your visit to Baker Street and now. Can you answer me that?"

I had helped our client to sit down and began to lightly clear away the shreds of cloth on his side. When I pressed a finger against the congealed gash, he gasped and flinched away. "It's alright, Darley, you're alright. It looks like a knife wound, but luckily your rib was in the way of any serious trouble."

"Serious! Dr. Watson, I've been stabbed!"

"And if you'll at least _try_ to work with me, we will attempt to capture the culprit!" Holmes shouted, his voice heavy with impatience.

Darley and I looked at Holmes in some surprise, his outburst evidently a sign of waning temper. He placed a hand on his hip, running his fingers through his hair. "You'll have to forgive me, but I can't help you if you continue to ignore my inquest. Now _please_, Darley, tell me what happened?"

He looked at my friend for some moments before turning to me. "I headed home after leaving your rooms, and I suppose I was overtaken."

"By whom? And for what purpose?" I asked, the response given directly to me. I heard Holmes's hand slap heavily against his thigh as he turned to leave.

I sighed.

"Meet me back at Baker Street when you're done here, Watson. My time is evidently best spent elsewhere. Good day!" Darley stared after him as the detective left the room, slamming the door behind him. Capital.

"He's the flair of a stubborn woman, Dr. Watson!"

"I know, he's quite the dramatist when he doesn't get his way. Now, so as to assure us both that my friend won't come back and murder you himself, why don't we try figure out what exactly happened here?"

"You don't think he'd really do that, do you?"

"I was only joking," I looked at him, and I swear there was genuine relief when I had spoken. Did he honestly think...? "Would you please, sir, tell me what happened here?"

He nodded, shifting on the sofa so that his arm could sling over the arm rest opposite me. "I'm not lying, Doctor, but I really have no clue who did this. Do you think someone's out to get me? They took away my best friend, and now an attempt's been made on _my_ life. Or maybe... do you think I was simply in the way? Perhaps someone saw me leaving your rooms and thought it best to do away with me. But to satisfy Mr. Holmes, I'll tell you that I came straight home after visiting you. I intended to do some work, maybe I did, I dunno, but I just remember sitting at my desk and then... well, I awoke to Mr. Holmes being angry, and you holding my hand, and now I've offended my last hope in finding peace. He won't give up, will he?"

I placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke assuringly. "My good sir, I can assure you that my friend will not abandon you to that killer, whomever he is. But you need to understand how Holmes works, and if you don't keep up as best you can, he does have the tenancy to snap. I will tell him what you've just told me, unless you have more to add?"

He looked round the room, eyes stopping where he had fallen. "I remember, my attacker, he seemed unsure of himself. He snuck into the house before I got home and awaited my arrival. He said something, but the entire situation was too exciting that I cannot for the life of me remember what he'd said."

"Your life may well depend on what he said. Try to think about it and... write to me, if something come up. As for your wounds, I suggest you call upon your doctor."

Again he nodded, and I stood to leave. "Tell Mr. Holmes I'm sorry. But to be honest, Doctor, I don't think I trust him."

My coat was about half on when I stopped to stare at the man before me. "What do you mean you don't trust him? If you're worried about some retaliation on his part, I can give you my word that nothing has changed his opinion about you or the case!"

"Of course, Dr. Watson."

It was a few hours before I was once again at Baker street, having being pulled away to assist one of the doctors at the hospital. When I opened the door to our rooms, I was welcomed by the sight of Holmes kicking something across the floor.

"Has your time been utilized well, Holmes?" said I, watching the object collide with a stack of books.

"Actually, Watson, it's all been a waste. The entire day's been a waste."

"I suppose, then, that you won't be keen on hearing that I got nearly nothing from Darley."

"Just as well," he spat. "What I did find was that one of my informants has been found dead."

"Oh? Well did you at least get what you sent him for?"

Holmes stopped mid-step and turned towards me. "Watson, you astound me! I know it's usual for _me_ to be indifferent, but that was quite unlike you. Well in answer to your question, no, I didn't get what I wanted. The wolf got my lamb, I'm afraid. Anyway, I feel that the least I could do is check poor Cooper's home. It'd be a terrible waste not to, wouldn't you say?"

I chuckled. "I suppose so, yes. When will you be back?"

He sighed. "I should think before too long, though one never call tell."

"Hmm." I picked up a pipe and sat in my chair, lighting the tobacco. "He said he was sorry, for upsetting you."

"Did he now? Hum! Well I think I see why Lestrade was so off his end on that first day of the investigation. How are you not driven mad by the site of this man yet?"

"I live with you, don't I? I think I'm well fortified for intolerable men."

"You've a point there, my dear Watson. So what did you get from him? I'd like to know before I leave on this endeavor, just so I've something to think about on the cab ride over."

I shrugged my shoulders before smiling to myself. "Well, he thinks that the man was lying in wait for him, and that he, Darley that is, was at his desk before things went awry. Anyway, the interesting thing was that he'd been convinced that you were out to get him."

"He thought I'd murder him!"

"He said he didn't trust you anymore. The poor man's mad, if I do say so myself."

"That is interesting," his finger taped lightly against his chin before retracting it and letting his hand fall to his side. "Very interesting... anyway, dear fellow, I shall see you in a few hours. Wait up for me if you wish, we can dine if the hour is agreeable."

"You ought to let me go along, Holmes." I said as he was closing the door behind him. He paused at the suggestion, but then continued out the door without a word.

* * *

**I'm so so sorry it's taken about a month (if not longer) to update this, and also I apologize for this chapter being so short. But between "Well Put" and "Dear Crime" as well as playing a certain MMO, I'm afraid this fic has been neglected.**

**Also, I got extremely disheartened after watching an episode of Psych and finding a character extremely similar to that which is my pride and joy _Darley_. It's like... I dunno, I watched that episode and was even I was convinced that I ripped off the character. :(**

**But I'm not gonna be a bitch and leave this unfinished. Chapter 4 was a kinda stand-still chapter with little to provoke my interest in working on it, but the story significantly picks up after this point. So, that being said, hopefully it won't be ANOTHER MONTH BETWEEN UPDATES. lol If I've lost a lot of readers for this one, then I totally deserve it.**


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